The Seekers

by John Jakes

  He patted Amanda’s rump and started her up to bed. “Tuck yourself in and put out your lamp—”

  “Won’t you come do it for me?”

  “No.”

  “Please—?”

  His face oddly drawn, he shook his head.

  iv

  “You do have a passion for satisfying your curiosity—regardless of the possible consequences.”

  He drank, not realizing that his nephew took the remark as an accusation. An unconscious one, perhaps, but an accusation all the same.

  “You must forget everything you heard, Jared. Mr. Rothman particularly would be badly compromised if it were known he’d even been in the same room with Henry Clay.”

  “I’ll say nothing.” And I must tell Amanda not to, either.

  “The gentlemen are staying the night in Roxbury,” Gilbert went on. “Under false names, of course. They’ll start back to the capital tomorrow—” He sank into a chair and peered at the rum in his goblet. “I’m glad they came. I have a better perspective, meeting one of the leading war hawks in person. I believe war will come. And while Clay’s motives are far from spotless, I believe it should.”

  “You do? You didn’t make that clear during the conversation.”

  “Royal was already upset. I saw no reason to add to his unhappiness. I’ll tell him my feelings in due course. He suspects them already—”

  Another long swallow of rum. “I don’t favor war for the reasons Mr. Clay does. Royal was correct—the hawk faction can only screech ‘Canada! Canada!’ It’s their obsession. Impressment’s a side issue—while to me it’s the central issue. The same sort of issue which drove your grandfather to join all the others who refused to have their liberties abridged forty years ago—”

  The eyes of both were drawn to the portrait of Philip. After a moment, Gilbert set his drink aside.

  “But we have a different issue to discuss.”

  Tense, Jared murmured, “Yes, sir.”

  “I know you’re not happy in this house. There’s no need to dwell on why—”

  “I must get away, Uncle Gilbert. I’ve no patience with school any more—”

  “Oh, I think you’ve already had quite enough to carry you through life. The trouble is, I don’t know what you do want. Where you hope to go, in the broadest sense of those words. Is it an apprenticeship you’re after? I can offer you that at Kent and Son.”

  “But I’d have to stay on here, and I feel I shouldn’t.” Jared leaned forward. “Please understand—it has nothing to do with you.”

  “I understand.” Gilbert covered his mouth briefly, coughed.

  “I’ll be less of a burden if I’m gone.”

  “You’re no burden, Jared.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, but I know otherwise.”

  “I’ve never particularly pressed you about joining the firm—”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “From the time you were very small, I somehow felt commerce wouldn’t interest you. I think you’ve inherited more than a touch of your mother’s restlessness.”

  Jared tried to smile. “That Virginia blood you talk about?”

  “This country is being created out of such restlessness. Created, expanded—it’s not a bad thing.”

  “I’ve no desire to go into the west the way my father did,” Jared said, his voice harder. “It’s a brutal place. It killed him.”

  “Well—in part.”

  Gilbert didn’t amplify the remark. He looked at his nephew with disarming friendliness.

  “I know it would be wrong to urge you to stay and work at the firm. You can’t abide your aunt—no, don’t say anything. Don’t pretend. That’s a truth neither of us should hide from—though it’s not necessary to delve into the reasons. As you well know, Harriet doesn’t harbor warm feelings for you either. Regrettably, there’s blame on both sides.”

  Jared nodded slowly. “I—I just want out.”

  “I’m willing—if we can find something suitable for you to do. You look surprised.”

  “I didn’t think you’d agree to my going.”

  “I want to spare you and your aunt further quarrels you both might regret for the rest of your lives. I’ve let my temper carry me away a few times in the past—the night your father left, for one—and I’ve cursed myself ever since.”

  “You’ve hinted about that quarrel, but never described it. Was it—?”

  “Bitter,” Gilbert interrupted. “Bitter, hateful, viol—oh, but that’s the past.” He faced away. “It’s enough to say that, ever since, my conscience has driven me to launch a search for your father at least once a year. Never with any success, alas.”

  He paused. “I’m wondering, though”—the library lamps put pinpricks of light into his dark pupils—“suddenly I’m wondering whether the answer to your dilemma might not be a leaf from your father’s book.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I think I’ve mentioned that your father went through a period of conflict with his father and mine—” He gestured to the portrait. “As a temporary solution, your father chose the military service.”

  Jared turned cold at the implications of that. His negative reaction didn’t come from cowardice as much as from his basic doubt about his own ability to survive in inherently difficult circumstances. But he kept silent, letting Gilbert continue.

  “I wouldn’t want to see you in the army. As you overheard, it’s hardly worthy of the name. Its highest commanders are dodderers, incompetents or both. But the navy, now—that’s another matter. Though small, the navy’s acquitted itself splendidly over the past ten years. From all I’ve heard, the officers by and large are first-rate—a match for any British captain afloat. And the half dozen frigates under sail must constantly replenish their crews as enlistments run out—”

  “How old do you have to be to join?”

  “For powder monkeys or cabin duty, they take boys from eight on up. You might have a chance at something better. A midshipman’s appointment. I could perhaps direct a letter to the Secretary of the Navy—yes,” Gilbert said with growing animation, “navy duty could be the answer. It would certainly suit the family tradition I’ve tried to keep alive.”

  “What tradition, sir?”

  Gilbert didn’t give a direct answer to the question. He walked to the portrait of Philip, gazed at it a moment, then said quietly, “It’s a pity you never knew him, Jared. A remarkable man. I loved him without reservation. When I was growing up, I was sickly—a disappointment to him, I’m sure. Yet he was unfailingly kind. The older I grew, the more I came to respect his convictions. I don’t mean his conservative politics—most men become more conservative as they reach middle age. I’m talking about something deeper and much more fundamental. He used to say this country gave him hope when he had none. It gave him love when he had none—gave it twice over. Your grandmother Anne, and my mother. He said he always felt it was his duty to repay those debts—”

  Jared looked at the strong face on the canvas. “I remember your telling me how brave he was.”

  “Brave in the most meaningful way. I’m sure he felt fear just as all normal men do—but in spite of that, he chose to fight for liberty when it would have been easier and more comfortable to remain a Tory. Beyond that, he pulled himself up in the world from nothing, and built a business. To make money, to be sure—but also because he believed the printing trade is of inestimable benefit to mankind. ‘Take a stand and make a mark.’ That was the sum of his life and his belief. He said those words to me shortly before he died. I’ve never forgotten them. I hope you won’t either. That’s why I had them inscribed on the fob I gave you last Christmas. In the navy, I think you could find the kind of fresh horizons you always seem to be hunting. Yet at the same time, you’d be giving as well as taking. Just as your grandfather did. Just as I try to do in my limited way. That’s what I mean when I speak of carrying on the tradition he established.”

  In the ensuing silence, both gazed
at the painting again. Then Gilbert became brisk, businesslike. “Unless you say otherwise, tomorrow I’ll draft a letter to Washington. I’ll make inquiries as to the whereabouts of our frigates. And, if possible, learn whether one might be berthing in Boston soon.”

  Despite his earlier apprehension, Jared found himself warming to Gilbert’s suggestion. Perhaps it was exactly what he needed: to test himself in hard circumstances. Perhaps that way, he could prove Harriet wrong—

  Yet fear remained. What if he did say yes—only to fail?

  He wouldn’t! He swore that silently, fervently—

  The idea of naval service wasn’t all that ominous if he stopped to think about it. There were aspects that excited him. Small as it was, the navy had a certain dash. He vividly recalled the previous April when the city’s own frigate, Constitution, Captain Hull commanding, had put in briefly to fill out her crew roster. The town had taken on a festive air—and rocked with laughter at the story of a green farm boy who had apparently swallowed too much of the recruiting officer’s rum. The country boy. signed on believing he was to be the captain’s gardener.

  When he sobered up and demanded his rake and hoe, a light touch of the cat convinced him to accept the tools of a carpenter’s mate instead.

  Boston had an ambivalent attitude about Constitution. She would sail against the British if war came—and Bostonians detested that idea. Yet the locally built warship remained a source of intense civic pride.

  Alas, there seemed little chance of serving aboard the city’s own vessel. In August, Constitution had cleared the Virginia Capes, bound for the dangerous waters along the French coast. She was carrying the new minister to France, Mr. Barlow and his family. The Republican had run an item about it.

  But as Gilbert said, the Boston ship was only one of six frigates now in service. Perhaps Jared could find a place on another. The thought of it—of laying Aunt Harriet’s convictions to rest—put a glow in his eyes—

  Abruptly, the glow faded. Gilbert noticed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you really think they’d take me? I have no experience with ships.”

  “Nor do half their recruits. You’ll learn, and quickly. The life’s hard. But most American captains aren’t the martinets their British cousins are—and there are fewer cruel and unreasonable punishments for breaches of discipline. There is a real reason why English seamen desert and wind up on our ships, you see.”

  He scrutinized his nephew.

  “Of course, in any service, one’s expected to obey orders. As I’ve said before, you’re much like your mother in some respects—”

  “Aunt Harriet keeps reminding me of that.”

  Gilbert frowned, then shrugged off the retort. “The fact must be faced, Jared. It would be folly to consider the navy if you feel you couldn’t do what’s expected of you. Without resentment.”

  More moderately, Jared said, “I can follow orders, Uncle.” He hoped it was the truth.

  Gilbert’s expression softened. “I’m heartened to hear you say it. Perhaps life in this house hasn’t been a fair test of that.”

  All at once Jared felt as if fetters had dropped from him. He recalled all the times he’d lounged along the Boston piers, watching the tall ships running in through the island channels, homeward bound from faraway ports. He’d never imagined that sort of life for himself. He was astonished at his oversight.

  With enthusiasm, he declared, “I think the whole idea’s wonderful. Please write the letter tomor—did I say something wrong? You’re smiling.”

  “For no sensible reason. You said nothing wrong.”

  Absently, Gilbert passed a pale hand across his brow. He walked to one of the windows overlooking the Common.

  Jared sensed an abrupt and extreme tension in his uncle. Gilbert’s slow pivot from the window suggested physical labor. His eyes were sad, remote—as if he’d looked outside and gazed on something other than the Sunday evening darkness.

  The boy waited, his hair glinting bright as metal in the radiance of the library lamps. He actually saw his uncle’s eyes return from whatever private vision had bemused him—return and focus on Jared’s face—and still with that sad air.

  “I repeat, I had no reason to smile. I was struck by a thought, that’s all. How everything changes and nothing changes. Some”—his voice grew firmer as he composed himself—“some years ago, in this same library, I offered to write another letter for another”—he hesitated; Jared contained his surprise at the glitter of tears Gilbert quickly dashed away with the back of one slim hand—“another man, in the misguided hope I could redirect his life. I’ll tell you the whole story one day. But not this evening. The—the dinner was quite tiring.”

  Jared accepted the falsehood in silence. Somehow he knew it was the recollection, not the argument about war, that had unsettled his uncle.

  Gilbert went to his nephew. Put an arm around him. “I trust I’ll be more successful with the second attempt than I was with the first.”

  He removed his hand, averted his head.

  “Now—”

  Again the broken voice.

  “It’s best we retire, I think.”

  v

  The moment Amanda heard the news at the dinner table, she wept—and refused to stop when Harriet ordered it. Harriet marched the little girl from the room and whipped her long and hard.

  Yet Jared soon noticed that once he and his uncle announced their joint intention, Harriet treated him with unexpected cordiality. She was attentive, cheerful and permitted him to take as many holidays from the academy as he pleased.

  He knew why. She was delighted at the idea of getting him out of the house.

  Ordinarily, he might have hated her all the more. But he didn’t because he was intoxicated by the winds of freedom he was scenting all at once. Strong, clean winds that blew frustration and unhappiness out of his life at last.

  As the year 1812 opened, the inflammatory talk from Washington grew hotter still. Except in New England, the country seemed to be in a ferment of anticipation—

  “Canada! Canada!”

  “Free trade and sailors’ rights!”

  “SHOW THE DAMN BRITISH ONCE AND FOR ALL!”

  Jared fully appreciated that in a war, men died. Yet he was young enough to accept the possibility without worrying too much about it. In return, he would escape from Beacon Street. He was getting the better end of the bargain, he felt.

  If he stayed under Harriet Kent’s thumb much longer, his spirit would wither and perish altogether—

  Or erupt in some terrible act of rage and rebellion that could mar his life forever, as Gilbert said. By going to sea, he might escape all that. And answer some fundamental questions about himself.

  Buoyed by a new sense of confidence, he found his fear lessening.

  War was like that rotting mackerel in the moonlight, he decided. So long as you stood far enough away to miss the stench, it gleamed with considerable attraction.

  Chapter III

  The Frigate

  i

  IT WAS MID-MAY BEFORE Gilbert received a reply to his letter to Secretary of the Navy Paul Hamilton. The secretary apologized for his delay in answering, but as Mr. Kent could well appreciate, pressing matters occupied the department. Gilbert and Jared both understood the nature of the pressing matters.

  Regrettably, Hamilton said, no appointments for midshipmen were available at the moment. Should Mr. Kent’s nephew still wish to serve, he would have to do so as a ship’s boy, receiving six dollars per month for an enlistment of one year. Mr. Kent would also understand that Mr. Hamilton could provide no information concerning the whereabouts of the larger United States vessels, but with luck, one of the frigates might soon put in at Boston or another New England port, and Mr. Kent’s nephew could then apply.

  Jared was disappointed. But the setback didn’t change his plans.

  On the eighteenth of June, President Madison declared war.

  ii

  Boston’s bells tolle
d in mourning. New England’s Federalist press raged. The declaration had only been approved in the Senate by six votes!

  Pastors took to their pulpits to decry the step. Toasts at conservative dinner tables condemned The existing war—this child of prostitution—may no American acknowledge it as legitimate!

  Although the American army had to depend on the militia for immediate manpower, Governor Strong of Massachusetts, as well as the governors of Rhode Island and Connecticut, refused to permit their militias to operate outside their respective states—or obey any order of the federal government.

  New England’s fury mounted when packets slipped past the British vessels cruising off the coast and delivered news that seemed to confirm the declaration as a tragic mistake. On the twenty-third of June, Lord Castlereagh had suspended the Orders in Council—those hated edicts responsible for the harassment of American ships.

  The news arrived too late. The army, such as it was, would soon be launching an attack on Upper Canada from its headquarters at Detroit. The commander was to be General William Hull, an outdated relic whose Revolutionary service hardly equipped him for modern frontier warfare. Few seemed worried. Hadn’t Jefferson himself written that conquest of Canada was “just a matter of marching?”

  In July, Bostonians could sneer at Jefferson’s confidence with justification. The key United States garrison on Michilimackinac Island, gateway to the western fur country, surrendered to an enemy force.

  But worse was in store.

  Rumors spread that the Shawnee Tecumseh would definitely align his braves with General Isaac Brock. The Federalists shook their heads. Brock had twice the wits and ten times the courage of that old fool Hull.

  A pattern of hideous blundering began to emerge. The British on the frontier had of course received word of the declaration by special couriers. But while Hull was plodding northward through Ohio to Detroit, some dunderhead in Washington chose to send him the same news by ordinary mail. The British commanders knew war was definite eight days before Hull did. Thus they seized an American ship on Lake Erie and captured an unexpected prize—secret orders for the American general.